Three Times Athos Saved Anne and the One Time She Saved Him
by Ripki
Summary: Such sorrow that breaks a man every day anew. (Spoilers for season 1.)


I

He cannot watch. He is a coward; too weak to watch her choke, to see the accusing eyes turn empty.

It's a perfect summer day, warm and cloudless. Swallows race in the sky. A week ago she picked forget-me-nots from the field, their gentle blue matching the color of her dress. He couldn't kiss her enough, again and again, drunk on love and his good fortune. She was his.

A week ago his brother teased him mercilessly about his lovesickness, eyes alight with laughter. Full of plans and dreams for himself, full of life. Now he lies beneath a fresh mound of earth, flesh slowly decaying, nothing but the bones left behind. If there is another place – the Kingdom of Heaven or something like it – they will not meet there. This parting will be forever.

That place is not for him and it is not for her.

The hands are bound, the rope put around the slender neck. The priest says his prayers. All in white, she looks like a bride. No last words from her, although her eyes say plenty.

With a nod he sentences her to die, but cannot watch; he turns away and rides hard. He rides and doesn't look back. He doesn't stop for a long time.

II

Hands sweaty, he tries to smooth down his clothes. He waits under the tree, long before they are supposed to meet. Pacing around, he changes the words, arrays them into a new order. He has never been an elegant speaker, often too blunt or wry. And it's hard to find the right words for the way he feels – exited and scared and confident and calm and hopeful in equal measure.

Finally she comes and for a moment, he forgets to breathe. She is radiant, and if he knew the right words, he would be a poet, forever speaking, writing, singing her praises.

Never hesitant, she takes his hand in hers and says her greetings. He has the whole day planned, the speech memorized, but he cannot wait another moment. _Anne. _Her name is like a prayer. He lifts her hand, kisses it. _Marry me. _

Her eyes widen and something vulnerable flashes across her face like a shadow, so fast he is almost certain he imagined it. She hesitates; he is suddenly desperately certain she is going to refuse. How can he live in a world without her?

Then she smiles, wide and true. _Yes. _

He clutches her hand in his, still not daring to believe. _Be my wife. _

She laughs, _yes. _Kisses him, slow and sweet. Whispers her consent again and again in his ear. _Anne, Anne_ – he can only answer with the fevered litany of her name. He doesn't know any other word. She will be his as he already is hers, their lives and hearts forever tied together. Surely, he has never before been this happy.

The rest of the day, he keeps her hand in his and doesn't let go.

III

Finally, it's over.

For the last time, he takes hold of her, a parody of embrace. Tells her to stop. To kneel. Enough. Enough of the hate and the hurt. She doesn't run, doesn't fight. She is as tired as he is.

The sword is an extension of his hand, a familiar weight, now an inherent part of him. It is right that she should die by his hand. Her scars are his making and he is complicit in every death, every hurt she has dealt to others in the long years they have been apart.

This time he hears her last words, looks at her in the eyes. He isn't going to turn away, let others shoulder this burden. Once, her green eyes were full of love. He wonders how he is going to survive this again.

Defeated, on her knees, she is still defiant to the end. Even now, her words are designed to hurt. _Now kill me. _But he cannot. _And do a better job of it than last time. _He cannot. Instead, he lifts her to her feet and tells her to go. To leave and never come back. To go far from him.

With gentleness that somehow hurts more than anything that came before, she rests her hand against his cheek. Even through her leather glove, the warmth of her skin burns him.

_You know there can be no peace – _he knows – _for either of us, until we are both dead. _

She goes. He lets her go. Her locket hits the ground.

IV

The house burns with hellish flames, writhing in the vengeful fire. His childhood home, his brother's portrait, his marriage bed. All will be gone. For a moment he wonders if she was a dream after all – if he himself lit the flames. If, in a drunken stupor, he finally did what he has long fantasized and burned the past. But she beat him to it.

She – d'Artagnan saw her too. For once, she is more than a dream, more than a memory. The truth comes out of him amid the smoke and the horror. She survived. The deceiver, the seductress, the murderess – his wife is alive, and still carrying the token of his love, the scars of a noose.

She is just as he remembered. Her dark hair, the smooth brow, the sensuous lips, the hollow of her throat – all the places he loved to kiss. But her eyes are alight with the house, burning with a hate so violent, he is rendered helpless.

Her words echo in his ears. _I killed Thomas to save our love. I thought you would understand._ He could not. He cannot. _It is right you should die with this house_. Yes, sometimes he thought of that too. Years of agonizing self-contempt, burning anger and paralyzing guilt. Such sorrow that breaks a man every day anew. Trying to forget, but never really wanting to let go. Trying to live without her, and never succeeding. But she is alive – what would he do now?

From the darkness of the night, he watches the house burn. The flames leap from the windows, reaching, searching for his flesh. He failed in his duty and his brother's murderer walks free. He broke his oath and condemned his wife to death. He had no choice, and yet, he had every choice. _Forgive me. _He doesn't know from whom he asks. He only knows that beneath all the horror and guilt is a relief and joy so fierce, it makes him weep. _Anne. Anne_. God, she is alive – and with her, he too is resurrected. 


End file.
